


so what are you waiting for

by cherrybites



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, angst? whom?, but he can't take it when keith dishes it back, it's canon compliant, lance can dish out the flirting when he's with strangers, there's an agressive use of em dashes, these are just two flustered dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 01:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrybites/pseuds/cherrybites
Summary: Lance swallows. He tries to refocus his attention on the slight prickling of his wound instead of the proximity of Keith’s face.“Y’know. The suit. It doesn’t look like you ever get out of it. What do you wear to bed when you’re at the base, anyway? Some purple Marmorian jammies with little blades printed on them?”Keith pulls a face. “What does my outfit when I go to bed there have to do with anything?”“Holy quiznak!” Lance barks out a laugh. “You totally go to sleep in the suit, don’t you?”“What? No—I—Lance, shut up!”





	so what are you waiting for

**Author's Note:**

> hi please give this fic a chance i bathed it in my holy sweat—
> 
> nah just kidding. it's loosely based on a post by @lanceskogane on tumblr. 
> 
> also the damsel in distress thing was definitely inspired by maximum ride aldsaslkd

* * *

 

He’s not sure when it happens, exactly. One dobash, he’s firing his sniper with all the intensity he can gather, a perpetual shit-eating grin tugging at his lips, and the next, he’s surrounded by one too many Galra soldiers. More than he had initially anticipated.

“I can handle this,” he tells himself as he does an ungraceful hop out of the line of fire. “Totally doable. Definitely something a renowned sharpshooter can take on.”

But even with his false bravado, Lance knows that there’s only so many fleets of purple aliens he can hold off before his only option might as well be welcoming death with open arms. And, like, not to sound entitled or anything, but he’s damn sure he doesn’t deserve to die any more than Lotor deserves a place on team Voltron.

Thinking about the outlawed prince only makes him wrinkle his nose. His grip on the rifle tightens. Even though he’s in the middle of a giant crossfire where he’s the main target, he’s unflinchingly glad that he’s not with the others on the other side of this unfamiliar planet, trying to extract whatever raw intel Lotor forewarned them about. There’s only so many times Lance can say ‘ _I wouldn’t even mop my floor with that wig’_ every time Lotor so much as tries to speak with him. The spite dries out pretty fast.

Lance squeezes off two more shots before ducking away, knocking a few sentries out of his path in the process like a row of dominoes.

 _Why_ is it that whenever he does something insanely cool and worth wooing over, his team isn’t here to witness it?

He attributes this factor to the universe being a satirical piece of shit, naturally.

“Take that!” he smashes the butt of his rifle in an unsuspecting soldier’s face before fleeing, vaulting himself over a pile of navy-blue boulders. Originally, Hunk had been stationed with him, but even with Matt’s brain to help Pidge out, the team needed a third techie with them.

And, well. That left Lance on the frontlines. The current pilot of the red lion decked out in blue armour while a sea of purple faces override his vision beneath a sea-green sky. Very poetic. Maybe he should enlist more of his free time into poetry-writing.

He nearly gets pelted by a laser headed right for his leg.

 _I shouldn’t have been so cocky_ , he thinks, eyes darting around him to find even more rows of purple aliens advancing at his spot. He wonders, briefly, if there’s even an exact number on the Galra – are there infinite Galra fleets out there? He’s never thought to ask. Somehow, in the heat of the moment, it feels more imperative now than ever to _know_.

“Uh, guys?” he says, adjusting his helmet properly so that he can hear their replies through the comms. “A little backup here would be nice. Or try hurrying up with whatever you’re doing, maybe?”

When only a faint whisper of static fills his helmet, he groans. The communication systems are down. How _convenient._ His visor, as far as he knows, hasn’t accumulated any cracks. Nor the interior of his helmet. _Maybe the source of the problem is external?_ He tries once more, just for good measure, but another sputter of static is the only thing he’s greeted with.

It’s times like these when he lets himself wish Keith was here. He’ll never admit it out loud, but with Keith at his back, pointing out potential targets right and left while slicing down opponents with his sword, dark hair swinging across his forehead in a sweaty tangle, Lance has never felt anything but giddy and adrenaline-fueled. He’s never had to worry about being openly vulnerable.

And he hates it. He hates how easy it is to remember Keith and him as a duo – the sharpshooter and the swordsman, both aware of the other’s fighting techniques and strategies more than their own. The charismatic negotiator and the impulsive brood. Red and Blue. Blue and red.   

 _Right hand man, my ass_ , Lance thinks fiercely. He doesn’t need Keith. He’s his own fucking person.

Yet there’s a voice at the back of his mind, slight and lilting, telling him that even so, Keith’s presence keeps Lance on his toes. It gives him some sort of ground control.

He hates it.

He tries getting the comms to work again, but to no avail. He’s about to smack his helmet repeatedly just out of sheer desperation, when without warning, a loud _boom_ has his heart lurching in panic, and his reflexes have him clumsily lifting his shield up in front of his face. He’s got about less than a tick to take everything in before he’s thrown off balance, getting his breath knocked out by a flurry of debris and broken bits of boulder that make their way past the edges of his shield.

_What the hell?_

The only thing running through his mind at this point is a colourful string of obscenities that could probably make Shiro faint on the spot.

He barely registers the fact that there are more shouts from his opponents, more sounds of fights ensuing, or even the dull throb of pain at his side. He only knows that amidst his stunned stupor, a figure – a Marmora soldier? – is rushing to his side, hood pulled up over their mask and a dagger gleaming at their hip. Lance squints, but he can’t really make out anything else about the figure through the dust. His vision is too hazy.

If the Marmora soldier says something, he doesn’t hear it. Lance is only able to re-tighten his grip on his rifle before he feels himself being lifted – albeit awkwardly – into strong arms.

He feels himself blacking out for a dobash, maybe two, and when he’s regained consciousness again, he finds that the figure carrying him is now sprinting. Their breathing is a bit ragged, but their steps never falter. It’s the only other sound Lance hears over the whoosh of air trailing behind them.

Over his shoulder, Lance can make out a group of Marmora soldiers pouring out of one of their purple ships. They’re in the process of trying to outnumber the squadron of approaching Galra, from what he can see.

All right, so maybe not the backup he’d anticipated, but backup nonetheless.

He relaxes a little in his rescuer’s grip, then looks up at the masked face, curious. He’s not sure why, but there’s something nagging at the back of his mind, a prodding voice or whatever telling him that there’s an obvious detail that he should know. There’s – there’s _something_ painfully familiar about the tilt of this soldier’s head. And the steps, too. He’s not sure how he knows this. Yet these self-assured steps, steady and lithe, aren’t foreign to him.

He licks his lips and tries to pull out a coherent explanation out of his muddled thoughts. It’s no use. He’s too out of it to have the sense to put anything together right now.

“Hey,” Lance says. He clears his throat. “Thanks for the save back there. I mean, I have no problem being toted around by a muscled stranger – guy or girl or whoever – but really, you didn’t have to carry me.”

The stranger doesn’t reply. They only tighten their hold around Lance.

“Not much of a talker, huh? That’s cool. Totally cool. I love being a damsel in distress, by the way.”

No reply – just another tilt of the head, almost as if they're raising a questionable eyebrow behind that mask.

Lance, at heart, knows he has bad timing. He knows he makes puns at inappropriate times and can get distracted too easily. But badly timed flirting and nonsensical conversations is how he _copes. Anything_ that distracts his over-analyzing excuse of a brain from spiralling into a panicked, disorderly mess helps him cope. On the run from a battle after almost getting blown to bits (possibly more than once, if his rescuer hadn’t done that whole ‘rescuing’ thing) and most likely obtaining an injury he’s not aware of yet? No biggie. Flirt it out. He’s already lost his dignity by getting himself outnumbered by a fleet of Galra, anyway. He doesn’t have much to lose right now.

He reclines against the soldier’s chest. Twists his rifle around to his other hand and squeezes off a ringing shot at a stray sentry nearest to them. Faces the hooded stranger again. And, finally, tries for a dazzling smile while daintily stretching one leg out.

“So, mysterious _stranger_. Mind telling me your name, at least? I figure that if you’re going to get all handsy on me, you might as well introduce yourself. Name’s Lance, by the way.”

The stranger growls in exasperation. They  _actually_ growl.

For a moment, Lance is nothing but confused.

 _Marmorians_ , he thinks, a sullen expression overtaking his face. _Always so stoic and serious._

“All righty, fine. You _really_ hate conversations. Don’t worry. I can talk enough for the both of us.”

He thinks he might’ve heard the stranger snort a little.

“I’m just going to assume you’re really shy or, more plausibly – “ he flashes a dimpled grin “ – too taken aback by my ruggedly handsome face. Which, by the way, I totally get. I won’t hold it against you at all.”

The stranger jerks a little. They veer dangerously close towards an outcropping of jagged boulders. Their hold on Lance loosens just a tiny bit from the misstep, enough to jostle the blue paladin and smack his helmet-clad head against the stranger’s armoured chest. The pain isn’t severe or anything; it only makes Lance grunt in surprise and wipes the smug grin clean off his face. But the stranger still pauses, slowing just enough to let their breaths even out and look down at Lance with that infuriatingly familiar head tilt.

Lance wishes he can see what the hell the expression on their face is.

He transforms his rifle back into his bayard and folds his arms over his chest. “I’m fine, dude. No need to fret. It’s not the first time my face has given someone whiplash.”

He pauses, waiting for a sound of agreement, but doesn’t receive it.

“…Anyway. You can let me down now. It’s not like my legs are completely immobilized or anything.”

The stranger shakes their head stubbornly. Lance rolls his eyes, making an elaborate show of being annoyed, but he’s not going to lie – it feels nice to be held, even If his armour makes the whole ordeal majorly uncomfortable and kind of awkward.

Still, there’s also the fact that he met this stranger less than ten dobashes ago and has no idea where he’s being taken to.

At that last thought, he jerks his head up. “Where are we going? Are you just aimlessly going to run around with me in your arms until we hit a dead end?”

No reply. Go figure.

“You know, you’re going to have to let me down sooner or later. Do you Blades even know what chivalry is? No, probably not. It’s dead. It’s dead everywhere.”

Now he’s just babbling.

“I take back what I said. I hate being a damsel. I just like the distressed part which, by the way, I’m currently doing right now. I’m _distressing_.”

Lance can feel the soldier’s chest heaving. It takes him a moment to realize that the sound being released behind the mask are huffs of laughter, almost as if instead of finding Lance’s predicament (re: running away from a fleet of approaching Galra and having his dignity severed) dire, they're amused by it.

The only thing Lance can return is an undignified pout.

Wordlessly, the Marmora soldier begins slowing down when they start to crest the top of an upturned bit of land. Dust flickers through the air, thick and heavy. Lance nearly chokes on it as he’s put down onto the rocky ground without warning.

His first reaction is to complain about how the rules of ‘shipping and handling’ apply to him one-hundred percent. That, however, is put on hold when he lets out an involuntary hiss at the pain that flares up on the lower side of his abdomen. Dammit. How did he forget about that?

Elbows digging into the hard-packed ground, he props himself upright with a heavy groan and cranes his neck, trying to see if his armour is badly torn. It doesn’t seem like it’s unamendable, but – wow. The “holy-crap-this-stupid-wound-is-hurting-way-more-than-I’d-like-it-to” zone would be a more accurate description.

The Marmora soldier, after looking over their shoulder to make sure no stray sentries or Galra troops have followed them, crouches down next to Lance.

To Lance’s horror, they finally speak.

“Don’t move.” They remove their hood in one swift movement. “It’s probably not a serious injury at all, but…”

Their mask melts away next, revealing indigo eyes beneath dark, furrowed brows. The tangle of slightly sweat-stained hair against their forehead poofs out a little.

Lance lets out a squeak so high-pitched he practically breaks the sound barrier _. “Keith_?”

Oh, quiznak, no. _This cannot be happening._  

The sight of him makes Lance forget about the throbbing pain. He scrambles to a sitting position, nearly giving himself whiplash as he braces his fists against the side of his thighs and stares at the former red (and black) pilot of Voltron, completely at a loss for words.

A ghost of a smirk flickers across Keith’s face. “Hi.”

Lance’s nerves are frazzled. The fog in his brain has somehow lifted, allowing him to rove his gaze over the other boy in wonderment. He doesn’t even know who he wants to be mad at more. Himself, for being so out of it that he missed the obvious fact that Keith is easily _a few heads shorter than every single other blade member_ and is therefore easy enough to tell apart, or at Keith, who hadn’t stopped Lance from unabashedly flirting ( _was_ it even flirting? he can’t recall) with him while being in his arms.

“You –“ Lance grits his teeth. He takes a deep breath and tries to uncoil the tension from his tone. “You know what? That whole silent-ninja thing was a major turn off, just saying.”

“Really? You had me fooled.” Keith makes himself comfortable on the ground. “I’m kind of offended that you didn’t recognize me.”

_Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t blush._

Lance folds his arms across his chest and juts his chin out, hyperaware of how defensive he looks. “I couldn’t know it was you, okay? I was completely out of my element, thanks to the gravity of the situation. Sue me.”

It might be the trick of the light, or the swirling dust in the air, or simply Lance’s imagination, but Keith’s face falls for just a fraction of a second before he composes himself.

“And, what? Not even a thank you for saving your ass?”

“Oh, stop looking so smug. I totally had that situation under control.”

“I distinctly remember you nearly getting blown to pieces. I think we both have different definitions for ‘under control’.”

Even if it’s petulant and will only serve to make that superior look on Keith’s face grow even more, Lance desperately wants to blow an indignant raspberry his way. That, or let his pride slip free so he can close the three inches of distance between them to grab him into a fierce hug.

Because, well, _fuck_. He’s missed that stupid, broody face and that stupid little smirk and that fucking mullet that he’s grown overly fond of. He’s missed their banter.

He’s missed Keith so much, and the full realization, the full weight of missing him for months but shoving all of the pent up frustration over it at the back of his mind, hits him with enough force to knock his breath out. He’s spent time in the training room with Hunk and Pidge and even Matt, but no matter how hard he tried – wherever he went – Keith’s absence stuck out to him like a sore thumb.

Lance, for all his bravado, isn’t bold enough to admit all of this out loud, though. Instead, he deems it _absolutely_ necessary that a witty comeback must be made at this moment.

“Whatever, mullet.”

Brilliant.

Keith swipes his bangs off his face. He gestures towards the small tear on the non armour-covered portion of Lance’s side. “Will you at least let me check that out?”

With a shrug, Lance shifts closer to Keith until their knees are pressed up against each other. He tries to go for a casual pose and relaxes his spine. Then he realizes he doesn’t even know what to do with his hands, so he shoves them behind his back and starts twiddling his thumbs, hoping Keith won’t notice his nervousness.

 _Why_ is he nervous, anyway? This is Keith – the socially inept loner who likes getting his knuckles bruised way too easily and has the kind of hair that can hide a whole porcupine in it. The guy who not only tries to push the whole team away, but Lance as well.

Lance would be lying if he says it doesn’t leave a hollow ache in his chest when he thinks about how far they’ve come in their friendship – or whatever else that’s been simmering beneath all the banter and teasing – just to have Keith shy away like it physically pains him from participating in it any longer. It’s disconcerting.

As Keith leans forward to brush his gloved fingertips over Lance’s exposed bit of skin, Lance inclines his head to the side and studies his face. His inky hair flops listlessly over the perpetual furrow of his brow. Lance has to restrain himself from reaching out and brushing it away, even if he knows it’ll just fall right back to the same spot. But then he notices the skin beneath his eyes is smudged darkly, most likely from tired or restless nights.

The thought of the Blades painstakingly wearing Keith down with all their missions makes Lance’s jaw clench.

“How did you know I was here, anyway? Weren’t you on another recon mission with Kolivan?”

Keith glances up. “Yeah. But Allura mentioned that you guys would be here for most of the day, so we decided to check up after an early finish.” He brushes his palm against the wound. “Looks like it’ll need some bandaging, but you’ll live.”

Lance’s lips tilt upwards as he playfully nudges Keith’s shoulder. “And yet, you still carried me. This is, like, the second time you’ve cradled me in your arms.”

“And it’s the second time I’m regretting it.”

“Aw, come on.” Lance lets his voice drop exaggeratedly low as he levels a fake-sultry gaze at Keith. “I’m the only one you’ve cradled before, anyway. Don’t tell me it doesn’t mean anything.”

Keith’s in the middle of fighting back a smile when Lance yelps in surprise, gaze snapping onto something over Keith’s shoulder. Then Lance is scrabbling for his bayard and releasing his shield just in time to deflect a laser beam.

“Scoot, scoot, SCOOT!” he yells at Keith, shoving him out of the way with all the force his non-injured side will allow him.

“I AM SCOOTING!” Keith shouts back in the split-second that Lance is able shoot down the stray Galra with his rifle. It hits the offending soldier in the chest, dead-on.

Lance realizes too late that he and Keith have lost their balance on the slope they were resting on the edge of. Before they know it, they’re plunging down on the other side, and Lance is so startled that he doesn’t even notice his fingers reaching out and latching onto Keith’s hood.

The momentum is what surprises Lance the most. They stumble down the steep hill with Keith swearing like a sailor, arms flailing wildly at his sides as Lance yelps at every bump that causes the pain at his side to spike even higher. In normal circumstances, It would’ve been an almost comical situation if this stupid alien planet didn’t harbour so many _craters._

Eventually, they pull to an abrupt stop. Keith first, then Lance, who crashes into the other boy’s side with a grunt. The hood is still awkwardly held in his grip.

For several moments, they each lie there, panting, staring up the sea-green sky, their heels digging into the equally sea-green soil of planet whatever-the-hell-its-name-is.

Then Keith exhales a laugh and twists around to face Lance. “That – that was an unnecessarily long drop.”

Lance groans and shuts his eyes closed. “This is an unnecessary amount of pain I’m feeling right now.”

He can feel Keith’s face hovering near him. There’s a pause, and then Keith’s fingers are wrapped around Lance’s wrist as he gently tugs out his hood from beneath his grip. Another pause. Keith’s hood is released, but his hold on Lance’s wrist isn’t.

Lance’s eyes are still closed, his heart beating rapidly from the blink-and-it’s-gone action that just sent them tumbling down here.

 _The hell was that?_ he thinks. _That should be the title of my autobiography._

Then he thinks, _I can’t believe it took a plummet down an ugly hill for Keith Kogane to hold my fucking hand._ His nose twitches. _That should be the heading to one of the chapters in my autobiography._

Yeah. Priorities. He’s got them.

“You all right?” Keith asks. “Or are you just being a diva?”

Lance, still adamant on not opening his eyes, scowls. “I’m in pain, Keith! _Pain_. And since when am I ever a diva?”

He hisses when Keith tries propping him up. Okay, so maybe he is overreacting a little – he isn’t mortally wounded and he’s suffered worse, but that thing on his abdomen is going to _scar_ and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t soak up every bit of attention he can get out of Keith in compensation.

He even contemplates leaning into Keith’s arms. What would it feel like, to just rest his head against the other boy’s chest?

He almost laughs at how mundane it feels to want such a simple thing. He’s never had the strong urge to do it when they were still living in the castle – but that’s because he always thought their relationship would progress slowly, unfolding bit by bit and leading their friendship into something more. _Time_ is what he’s always thought they would have. Time to establish some ground rules, and time to stop dancing around the strange tangle of emotions inside of him that he still can’t make sense of.

Yet Keith doesn’t live with him or the rest of team Voltron now. Lance isn’t sure he’ll ever come back, even with everything that’s been happening in the last two days between Lotor and the team. A little part of him, a selfish part, wants to shake Keith and tell him that even if he isn’t a pilot or wears paladin armour anymore, he’s still vital. That the blade doesn’t deserve such a fierce and recklessly loyal boy like him. That Lance _misses_ him.

The other part of him, the insecure part that keeps saying that Keith is a stubborn idiot who won’t listen to him, wins.

So instead, he exhales a long breath and removes his helmet, shaking out his hair as he watches Keith rummage around in his utility belt.

“Please tell me that thing has some painkillers.”

Keith pulls out a strip of bandages, then a tiny purple vial. “Sorry. I don’t have painkillers on me but –“ he clears his throat – “I could rub in  this ointment for you. It actually works wonders.”

“Wonders, huh?”

“I'll be gentle.” A small quirk of the lips. “ _Promise.”_

“Fine, then. Oint me up.”

“One –“ Keith says, lifting the vial – “don’t ever say that again. And two, you’ll need to rest your head against me.”

“First of all, don’t tell me what to do.”

 _“Lance_.” There’s definitely a small hint of laughter in Keith’s voice now. The stern look he tries to put on keeps breaking. “I’m trying to help you.”

Lance lifts his hands up in surrender. He tries his best to keep the goofy grin off his face as he leans against Keith’s chest and stretches his legs out in front of him with a wince.

He’s vaguely aware of how his hair tickles the bottom of Keith’s chin, and how Keith seems to lean into him just the tiniest bit, but Lance is more focused on the other boy’s quick fingers digging into the vial and gently smoothing it over the irritated skin. He expects it to burn, but as soon as the ointment makes contact with his skin, he can’t help but release an involuntary sigh of bliss.

“This,” he proclaims, “is sorcery. It’s, like, ten times better than the Zam-Buk my mom used to slather on my split knees.”

As more ointment gets applied, Lance can almost feel the swelling of his skin loosen up. He can hardly feel the burning sensation anymore – just a little tingle, or maybe an itch.

But Lance, being Lance, is only able to sit still for an approximation of three point five ticks before he’s jerking his head up with impatience, almost until the bridge of his nose is pressed against the side of Keith’s jaw.  

“Do you ever get out of that suit?”

“What?” Startled, Keith looks down at him. Oh, no. His face is too close.

_Abort, abort, abort._

Lance swallows. He tries to refocus his attention on the slight prickling of his wound instead of the proximity of Keith’s face.

“Y’know. The suit. It doesn’t look like you ever get out of it. What do you wear to bed when you’re at the base, anyway? Some purple Marmorian jammies with little blades printed on them?”

Keith pulls a face. “What does my outfit when I go to bed there have to do with anything?”

“Holy quiznak!” Lance barks out a laugh. “You totally go to sleep in the suit, don’t you?”

“What? No – I – Lance, shut up!”

Lance’s sudden fit of laughter only increases. This is a boy who can make an ugly, cropped jacket look good. What he does to the Marmora suit is _damn_ near criminal. Yet the image of Keith trying to get some shut-eye, uncomfortably itchy in the skin-tight suit, won’t leave him and he’s only able to contain his bout of giggles because the pain at his side flares up again.

Keith rolls his eyes. “It’s not like we ever have time to get a decent break in-between missions. I’m usually too tired to care.”

At once, Lance sobers up. Somehow, in the span of a few ticks, the air between them has abruptly become tense now. The crackle of energy from their easy, proverbial banter dissipates as quick as a wink of light.

“Be honest. How much sleep have you gotten?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Keith mutters with a scowl. He screws the lid back onto the vial before picking up the roll of bandages next.

“Keith.” Lance’s voice softens almost imperceptibly. “You know damn well that you can’t stay with them forever.”

It's funny how an unfamiliar landscape and a hill isolating them from everything else can change a conversation. Words turn quiet and mean more even if it’s less than a sentence. _It's like you can build your own little world, Population: 2_ , Lance thinks absently.

Keith exhales a slow breath as he moves his chin along the crown of Lance’s head. He can feel Keith’s jaw tightening against him. Lance expects him to lash out, to give him the same bullshit spiel about how the mission is always important, that he’s an expendable source, that he’s better off planting explosives in Galra cruiser ships. But he doesn’t do any of that.

Instead, he says, "I know you probably don’t agree with the Blade’s way of… doing things, but I don’t think I’m ready to come back. Not yet.”

Lance’s heels dig further into the hard soil. “And what exactly do you mean by _not ready to come back?_ What are you waiting for? Lotor is _literally_ in our grasp as we speak, and I know more than anyone else that you’d want to keep an eye on him.” His eyes trail up to meet Keith’s gaze. “So if it isn’t the purple fungus on legs that you’re staying for, then what is it?”

Keith makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat as he rips off a strip of bandage with his teeth. “Let’s just drop it, okay? Now isn’t really the time –“

“Nope.” Lance grabs onto Keith’s gloved fingers, preventing him from placing the bandage around his wound. It’s a weirdly intimate position they’re in; Lance leaning heavily against Keith’s chest, his face angled high enough to feel Keith’s huffs of breath against the side of his temple and his legs cocooned between Keith’s own. The warmth soaking through from the closeness of another body is hard to ignore, even with their respective armour acting as a barrier. Yet their physical intimacy does nothing to drown out the sudden flare of irritation in Lance – he’s too stuck on ‘ _I don’t think I’m ready’._

“Listen. When you left, I decided to respect your decision because I thought that’s what you wanted –“

“It _is_ what I want –“

“– and I thought it was going to be temporary, you know? I thought – uh, we _all_ thought – you’d be back. But it’s been months and now…I’m not so sure. Do you really not think of us as a family worth coming back to?” to his frustration, his voice hitches a little. “Is there something I did? Is that why you left? Because I have Red now and you’re not a pilot anymore and –“

_“Lance.”_

Reluctant, Lance peeps at Keith again.

“It’s not any of those reasons. How can you even – never mind. It’s just. Don’t get me wrong, I miss everyone on the team and I miss sleeping in the castle and I miss wearing my red jacket. All of it.”

“Really? You miss your ugly sense of fashion?”

Keith quirks a sly smile at him. “I guess I missed your face a little, too.”

Lance is sure his windpipe is collapsing, because it’s at that exact moment when he starts choking on thin air. Maybe his brain is working wonky and he’s misinterpreting Keith’s words. Or the atmosphere of this planet is getting to him.

“You can’t just say that,” he sputters out when he eventually manages to swallow his spit down the right hole. “You can’t just do a whole one-eighty in a conversation and just _say_ that.”

“Why not?”

Lance jabs an accusatory finger up in the air. “I know what you’re doing, mullet, and it’s not working.”

Now Keith looks nervous. He doesn’t even say anything; just looks at Lance questioningly, as if he’s entered an unfamiliar turf he has no idea how to navigate out of.

Lance, on the other hand, is a jumble of emotions. Of all the things he had expected to be concerned about today, it’s not this. He did not sign up for this. He did not sign up for a heart-to-heart on a strange planet where they’re probably dobashes away from being spotted by an advancing fleet of Galra, or where he’s practically sprawled against the lap of his not-so-much-of-a-rival-anymore-rival. He did not sign up for an unwarranted amount of frustration over Keith’s unwillingness to give him a straight answer.

“You’re distracting me by changing the subject!”

He watches as Keith shakes off his hand and begins the process of bandaging his wound, despite Lance shooting an impressive death glare at his face.

“I think I’d be more useful right now with the Blades,” Keith says after a long stretch of silence. His voice is quiet. Much softer now. “What would I even do in the castle? You know I hate sitting around and doing all of that…”

“Boring alliance stuff?” Lance offers helpfully. “Actively participating in negotiations? Suppressing the urge to not get all huffy at everyone the first chance you get? Want me to go on?”

“I don’t get all _huffy_ ,” Keith asserts huffily. “It’s just that I’m no good at this stuff like you are. You like helping people out and it’s second-nature for you to get along with literally anyone you meet. You’re just – well – “ he scrunches his nose – “charming.”

“Don’t forget naturally sexy.”

“Hm.” A glint enters Keith’s eyes. “I don’t see it.”

“ _Jackass.”_

Both snort out a laugh.

They lapse into silence after that. Above them, the sky is beginning to darken. Lance assumes it’ll only be less than a varga before sundown. The team is taking more time than usual, but he already anticipated that.

Still, it won’t be long before they return, and his efforts to try and make Keith understand how much of an idiot he’s being by forcing himself to stay with the blades is backfiring spectacularly.

He considers this for a moment or two. He may be the only one who can get through to Keith on most days, but he’s not so sure about now. As much as he hates it, he gets what Keith is trying to say. He gets that Keith, being more of a man of action, has a better grasp of what he’s doing with the Blades. He knows Keith is capable of putting his skills to use with them.

He knows this, but that doesn’t mean he has to _like_ it.

“Okay.” He blows out a sigh, suddenly too worn out to argue any further. “I still think you don’t belong with the Blades, but I know you’re too stubborn to come back right now. So I’ll let this slide.”

“I appreciate the sentiment.”

“But,” Lance jabs his finger in the air again, almost like a condescendingly nagging mother, “if I don’t see you taking some time aside for a siesta – even if it’s only for a few hours – I’m going to personally shove my way into the Blade’s headquarters and make sure you regret it.”

Keith dangles the remainder of the bandage in front of Lance’s face. “That’s no way to talk to someone who just kept you from getting infected.”

“You’re right, you’re right. My apologies, sugar mullet. I won’t dare say that again, honey pie. I’ll try to sound more grateful next time, pumpkin spice.”

Keith’s nose wrinkles. “I feel so edible all of a sudden?”

“Cute enough to eat.”

A pause. Then, they both start snickering, and Lance can barely contain his disbelieved laughter because of the absurdity of the situation and how dumb this all feels, but also how _right_ it feels. He suddenly doesn’t know what to do with the surge of warmth flourishing inside of his chest. Just the sound of Keith’s laugh, low and deep and a tiny bit hoarse, sets the nape of his neck on fire. He's missed this.

“When you come back – for good, at least – I’m going to give you, like, the biggest reunion kiss ever.” The words fly out of his mouth before his brain can comprehend what he’s saying.

He feels Keith freeze against him.

_Quiznak._

_Okay universe, now’s your time to unleash the fleet of Galra attackers on us so I can file this mortifying slip-up at the back of my mind._

But the universe, as usual, is kind of a piece of shit, so he settles for squeezing his eyes shut and hoping he can just fake his own death and make Keith so emotionally tortured over the tragedy that he completely forgets about anything that came before that.

_Another moment ruined. That’s me, Lancey Lance. Ruiner of moments. Ruiner of –_

His eyes fly wide open when he feels the brush of soft, slightly chapped lips on his own, effectively cutting off his train of thought. His heart stutters. He's so startled that his mind goes blank. 

It only lasts for less than a tick, barely long enough for it to be considered a kiss, but that’s because Lance doesn’t reciprocate it, too busy being dazed and stunned into silence. When Keith pulls away, his eyes are wide. The bottom of his lip juts out nervously.

“I – uh –” he blinks, bewildered. “Did i do something wrong –”

Lance finally snaps out of his stupor long enough to breathe out a ‘you call that a kiss?’ before he’s twisting around, half of his body pressed against Keith’s while his fingers clutch the front of the other boy’s purple hood.

As soon as their lips meet again, Keith’s arms wrap around Lance’s waist. The warmth of Keith’s mouth against his is the most terrifying and liberating feeling Lance has ever felt; it feels so natural, and he’s so eager to deepen the kiss, to bite the small pout on Keith’s lower lip, that Lance nearly careens them both off balance.

The kiss is sloppy and they can’t stop grinning when they keep bumping noses, but to Lance, it’s impossibly perfect. He pours all of what he he’s been feeling these past few months into it – the despair he felt whenever he thought of Keith never coming back alive from a mission, the relief he feels now, pressed against Keith with his fists tangled in his hood.

When they finally part, Lance takes a moment to catch his breath. It’s another few ticks before he’s capable of speech. “Okay. Cool. Kissing right now, in the middle of a planet with fleets of Galra, is cool too. Amazingly cool. I should stop saying cool now.”

Keith is still stunned, but he shakes his head a little before speaking. “What? was that not romantic enough for you?”

“Keith, you and romance don’t go together, like, at all.” Lance lets a slow grin spread across his lips. “But I can’t say I’m complaining right now.”

He leans his head against Keith’s collarbone, trying his best to ignore the fact that they’re not particularly in the best of situations right now to be locking lips.

“For the record, you do belong with us.”

“Hm?”

“You said you wouldn’t be useful to us right now,” Lance explains, still not lifting his head. “But, I just want you to know that you do have a rightful place with Voltron. The team needs you, even if you can’t see it. We’ll always be here when you decide to come back.”

Just hearing the words coming out his mouth makes him cringe. He’s always prided himself for his way with words, but it seems that today, he’s become completely incompetent with them.

Naturally, he attributes this factor to Keith’s stupidly attractive face.  

“I could say the same for you,” Keith says, voice quiet, and Lance has a sudden flashback of him standing in Keith’s room all those months ago, the first time he ever left himself be entirely vulnerable in front of the dark-haired boy. It feels like it only happened yesterday. _Time_ doesn’t feel that real at all these days.

A small laugh escapes Lance. “I guess we both have some deep-rooted self-doubts, huh?”

It’s another moment until Keith speaks.

“And I guess neither of us is still all that reassured, huh?”

“Guess not.”

Lance leans back so he can carefully take in Keith’s expression. He feels a sudden explosion of ferocity in his chest when he takes in the small tilt of Keith’s lips. It’s the kind of trigger-happy ferocity that makes him want to leap into the air and take down half a Galra fleet in one go, all on his own. The kind that brings the jittering restlessness back into his bloodstream and sends him wanting to run laps around the tiny planet.

It’s the familiar kind of sensation he always feels when he’s clashing opinions or butting heads over a stupid argument with Keith – only, now, it’s been multiplied twofold.

There are a lot things that should be at the front of his mind right now. Things like alliances and endless negotiations Coran has the team working towards each day. Things like Lotor and Zarkon and the mind-numbing fact that the wars aren’t going to stop coming any time soon. On top of everything else, he’s getting the dawning realization that going back to earth unscathed is becoming less of a possibility and more of a desperate reverie. He’s not sure any of them will be alive when the opportunity to return will rise.

In that moment, with his teeth biting into his bottom lip, with Keith’s fingers nervously curling around his own, he isn’t quite sure of anything.

But he’s damn sure that whatever _this_ is – whatever he and Keith have just started, is something he wants to see play out for as long as he can. For now, in this moment, it’s enough.

.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
